Earlier Hauntings

by Olivia Rosario

I am waiting for my ghost to save me.

For my white undershirt to slide across the
floor and curl itself about what I don’t know.

I have tried fitting paperclips to the tips of my nails.
The ones you sifted through and left dusty in the little bowl.

I wrecked the seats of my car then drove it to the beach.
Ghosts aren't blind. Even in the yard.
I ran away rotten, so I picked my posture.

Back to the holding place, stuck in the crooks and
nooks of a hammock, mangled by time.
Just soon enough for it to swallow us down.

I admit to this haunting, you, me, the ghost that manned
the hammock, the yard, the knife, the undershirt.

Not in this place, but in the seed of us.
You in half light, you in body, you in your bullet
torn knuckles reaching for the loft of me.

Stretching to clap sweatpants strings.
The maker’s blood, the pastor’s words.
Knots and knots of hills unclaimed.

My spine has toppled through your turbid lap.
We become the glassblower.

 



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